I learned early that stopping was dangerous. So I kept moving. Harded. Faster. Further. Higher. I told myself I was building a life. But I was also running from one.

I carried responsibility like armor. Guilt like fuel. Urgency like oxygen. If I slowed down, I would feel it. If I felt it, I might fall apart. So I survived by moving.

I did not realize that what I was outrunning was still holding on.